


'a vera pizza

by AliceCasch



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceCasch/pseuds/AliceCasch
Summary: “You know, you get a piece of pineapple, it’s sweet. You bite the ham, meaty. You get the crust, bready and crunchy. The mozzarella cheese and the tomato, familiar and a bit tangy. Every bite’s a surprise. It’s fun.”“Fun?” Tony repeated, growing more incredulous with every word Peter said, “Pete, it’s a damn abomination, that’s what it is.”“Mr Stark, it’s just a matter of taste. Everyone has their own and all that”, the teen insisted. He hoped his tone made it clear that the discussion ended there.The discussion did not, in fact, end there. “No, scratch that. You’re trying a pizza done properly. We’re going to Italy.”***or; Tony Stark makes his Italian ancestors proud.
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Happy Hogan & Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Happy Hogan & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	'a vera pizza

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for clicking on this!! As some of you may know, I'm Italian, and I love headcanons where May and Tony bond over being Italian. Also yes, I do find pineapple on pizza EXTREMELY WEIRD, but if you like it, you do you! That being said, enjoy <3

It all began with a pizza. A Hawaiian pizza, to be exact. The most atrocious monstrosity to ever be created, the product of all evil, the bane of every respectable Italian’s existence. Tony knew his mother was turning in her grave as he ate, and he winced every time he took a bite of pineapple. Pineapple. _Fruit._ On a pizza. On a perfectly reasonable piece of dough with tomatoes and mozzarella cheese. The ham he could accept. A classic _margherita_ would have been better, but he’d take what he could get. Adding the pineapple was seriously taking it too far. He knew that the Swedes put bananas on top of what they had the nerve to call a pizza, and he burned with outrage every time he thought of it, but at least he was still relatively safe from that abomination: Sweden was a whole ocean away from him. Swallowing another piece of fruit, he vowed that he would never touch a Swedish pizza in his life. But then again, vows could be broken: when he was still young and innocent, not yet torn to pieces by the horrors of life, he had sworn to not eat a single bite of Hawaiian pizza, ever. And here he was, desperate and defeated, with pineapple stuck to his own, hypocrite teeth.

In the end, Tony supposed the kid was to blame. Him and his damn brown puppy dog eyes. Peter was well aware of the power they had, and he never hesitated to use them. Last December he got Tony to bake cookies, because apparently they were a staple of Christmas and _“you don’t wanna kill the spirit like a billionaire Grinch, Mr Stark!”_. When the cookies got out of the oven, they were burnt and they tasted like coal, but the kid ate every single one, smiling so wide his face was going to split in two, and so Tony did too, because coal was the best food in the world when Peter was there with him. In February he convinced his mentor to build a functioning lightsaber, and Tony could tell it was going to be a bad idea, and he was _so_ ready to say no, but then the kid looked at him like a human Bambi and when DUM-E sprayed them with the fire extinguisher and they ended up on the floor covered in foam, Tony didn’t have the heart to be angry, because Peter was laughing and that was enough. Today was no different: when they had taken a break from working in the lab, Tony had asked Peter if he wanted to order pizza. The kid had said yes, and then his face had lit up. Tony’s internal alarm bell had started ringing. Peter had stayed silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully.

A grin had started spreading on his face. “Mr Stark, can we get the Hawaiian?”

Tony had paled. After a moment, the usual indignation kicked in. “Kid, I would literally figure out time travel for you, but there’s no way you can convince me, an Italian raised right, to buy that abomination.”

Three things had crossed Peter’s mind. One: Tony would figure out time travel for _him_? Wow. That was a lot. He might’ve cried if it wouldn’t have turned in an extremely awkward situation for both parties involved. Two: Tony wasn’t Italian. His mom was. There was no need to be so pretentious. Three: if he wanted his pizza, he needed to step up his game. And step up his game he did. Biting the inside of his cheek until he had felt his eyes begin to water, Peter had said, “Please, Mr Stark?”

Tony had thought about it, seemingly fighting a battle inside himself. He had sighed the sigh of an old man, cracking bones and eyes that have seen too much. “Alright, Underoos. You win.”

The smile he had received in response had almost made the defeat worth it.

* * *

Tony was handling the pizza situation like a champ. He would’ve patted himself on the back if he weren’t so concentrated in finishing his slice without vomiting the pineapple. And then Peter said a few words that made everything go downhill. The teen was working his way through the sixth portion when he mumbled: “ _É buona,_ Mr Stark”

Tony’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn’t have heard that right. “Could you— what did you say, Pete?”

Peter stared at him with a puzzled look. “ _É buona_. It’s good. Don’t you know Italian?”

Tony _had_ heard it right, then. But if Peter spoke Italian, how come… “Peter, Aunt May taught you Italian?”

“Yeah, I mean, I know a few wo—”

“She taught you Italian and she never made you a pizza?”

“She did,” Peter replied, more confused than ever.

“So, let me get this straight, kid. You _have_ tried a real, Italian homemade pizza. You still order the Hawaiian.” Clearly there was something that Tony had missed, because as it was, it just didn’t make sense.

“Yeah?” Peter was starting to get defensive. What was it with Tony and his choice in pizzas? “Look, I like the Hawaiian, and it’s better than May’s. I mean, she’s not _that_ bad, but... Anyway, I enjoy the contrast.”

“The _contrast_?” Tony scoffed.

“You know, you get a piece of pineapple, it’s sweet. You bite the ham, meaty. You get the crust, bready and crunchy. The mozzarella cheese and the tomato, familiar and a bit tangy. Every bite’s a surprise. It’s fun.”

“ _Fun_?” Tony repeated, growing more incredulous with every word Peter said, “Pete, it’s a damn abomination, that’s what it is.”

“Mr Stark, it’s just a matter of taste. Everyone has their own and all that”, the teen insisted. He hoped his tone made it clear that the discussion ended there.

The discussion did not, in fact, end there. “No, scratch that. You’re trying a pizza done properly. We’re going to Italy.”

* * *

Peter wasn’t really surprised when Tony showed up at the apartment’s door, a few hours later. May let him in with a suspicious squint: the whole situation felt too much like a deja-vu for her liking. Because what had happened the last time Tony Stark willingly came to ‘talk about her nephew’? Oh, right, Captain America let a… what was it, a jet bridge? Not that May cared: point was, Mr Good and Righteous let it fall on top of her kid. And even though she and Tony were on more friendly terms right now (or at least, speaking terms) she felt justified to a little healthy distrust. So no, May did not want to have a chat about Peter at the moment. It must’ve been written on her face, because Tony put his arms forward as if to brace himself for a metaphorical blow (or even a real, physical one, because it was May that he was talking to and she had proven herself more than capable of throwing a slipper to his head if he made her angry).

“Well, hello, May,” he said with a charming smile.

“You’re not going to bring him to another fight, are you?” May replied, perhaps more harshly than she intended.

“No”, Tony turned serious, “but we need to talk about your nephew’s preferences”.

The woman crossed her arms, waiting for him to go on.

“He told me that Hawaiian pizza was good, May. _Good_.”

“And?”

“What do you mean, _and?_ He said he tried a proper, homemade one, and he _still_ liked it. A pizza. With fruit on top” Tony started waving his arms around like a madman.

May, to her credit, was doing a wonderful job at not bursting in laughter. “We can pretend all that we want, Tony, but as much as it pains me to admit it, we both know how wonderful I am in the kitchen. I don’t blame Pete for liking the Hawaiian more than mine.”

“You’re Italian, May. Italian.”

“You don’t have to repeat every word you say, you know. I understand the first time,” May smirked.

Tony ignored her jab, too shocked to even react. “How can you bear the sight of your nephew, your _flesh and blood_ , eating that horror and enjoying it?”

“I suppose it’s a bit weird, and I wouldn’t eat it if he paid me, but if he likes it, who am I to ruin his fun?”

“Ruin his fun? You’d be giving him a culture, May. That’s what you’d be doing”.

The woman in question couldn’t resist anymore: she snorted, and before she knew it she was doubled over in laughter. “Listen”, she said when she was finally able to catch her breath, “if it bothers you that much, why don’t you make him a pizza?”

Tony shook his head. “No, no, no. That wouldn’t be enough. He needs to… You can’t just _eat_ a pizza. You have to _experience_ the pizza. You have to breathe it. You have to smell it. Smell the fresh basil and the mozzarella and the tomato and the city, the smog, the flowers from the street vendor nearby. You have to hear it. Hear the crunch, but also the chatter of other customers enjoying their dinners. You have to _live_ the pizza.”

May pretended to wipe a tear from her eye. “ _Signore,_ that was a riveting performance. But pray tell, Mr You-Have-To-Live-The-Pizza, how do you intend to do so?”

Tony sucked in a breath, suddenly anxious. “Well,” he mumbled, “I was thinking I could take him to Naples.” He wished it didn’t sound so much like a question.

“To Naples?” May asked, and damn it, why did she have to be so good at making Tony’s ideas sound incredibly stupid?

But Tony was a man of pride, and he wouldn’t back down now. He gave himself a moment to internally panic, and then he did what he was best at. He faked his way through it. He put on his press smile, the one he gave reporters when they asked a particularly hard question and said: “I mean, I thought it would be nice to show him around the place where I spent half of my childhood.”

May stayed silent, but she nodded, and Tony could hear millions of tiny angels sing inside him. His smile said, _thank you_ , and May’s extended hand replied _you’re welcome, Stark._ Tony shook it gladly, and he thought fleetingly that this one was the first handshake he had looked forward to in weeks.

“How long are you planning to stay there?” May said.

“How long _can_ we stay there?” Tony retorted.

“Peter starts school in—”

“Twelve days.” At May’s questioning look, Tony couldn’t help but feel a bit proud. “What? I have a few tricks up my sleeve.”

May looked positively surprised. Then she had a thought and glared at him. “You’re not _stalking_ Peter, are you?”

“Sta— god, no, of course not. Why do you Parkers think I’m watching you like some kind of weird Big Brother? He _told_ me. And for your information, I already knew how long Spring Break lasts, thank you very much.”

He received a _very_ disbelieving stare in response, and he made an affronted noise, somehow without resulting childish: after all, he was Tony Stark, and making dignified affronted noises was yet another talent of his.

“Perfect. You have five days,” May decided, “I want to spend the last week with him”

“Seems right to me,” Tony agreed. As if it was possible that _anything_ May decided didn’t seem right to him. Maybe in another universe.

Out of the blue, the woman in front of him started laughing. For one, terrible moment, the genius wondered if she had gone mad (that would have explained why she was okay with him taking Peter on holiday, now that he thought of it.) “Sorry”, she said when she could speak without giggling every two seconds, “but we just seem a divorced couple arranging the holidays.” Tony nodded. Now that she pointed it out, he could see it too. They were Marisa and Robert, two middle-aged parents that had never had a happy marriage but were trying to keep things civil for the sake of their child.

May-Marisa blinked.“So it’s settled. You and Peter leave tomorrow morning, correct?”

“Well, I mean, I have to—” May looked at him expectantly, as if she was waiting for him to contradict her. Tony’s words died in his throat. “Yeah, if it’s fine with you.”

“Good”, the woman hummed. “The door’s that way.”

Tony would’ve been offended if he hadn’t seen the twinkle in May’s eyes. This, he supposed, was her strange way of showing affection. Acquaintance. Begrudging respect. Whatever the hell they had going between them.

* * *

Peter did _not_ appreciate being woken up at 7 a.m. He was on vacation, and vacation was made to sleep until noon and stay in bed doing nothing all day. Whoever had to say otherwise was a damn psychopath. There was no _agree to disagree_ bullshit here.

His mood plummeted even more when May told him he had to pack for five days. To go where? Nobody knew. Because packing without knowing where he was going was easy, right? Piece of cake. Thinking about all the injustices in this world, the teen threw five shirts in a duffel bag, along with his underwear, socks, a hoodie and a pair of shorts that would double as change and as pyjamas. Countless videos watched in the middle of the night taught him that. Lastly, he took his camera from the top of the shelf and put it around his neck. Then he took a step back and admired his work, just like the protagonist of the coming-of-age teen movies that MJ secretly enjoyed. His soundtrack (aka the song that had been playing on repeat in his mind for the past 24 hours, _Ocean Eyes_ by Billie Eilish) ended right on time (and then it started again, but in movies this didn’t happen so he conveniently elected to ignore that tiny, insignificant detail.)

A car honked in the street and tore Peter away from his beloved, untitled movie. Grumbling under his breath, the teen took his bag and made his way out of the room. He had walked two steps when he clashed against Aunt May, who was apparently... bringing him breakfast? Huh. Maybe this day wouldn't be _that_ bad.

"Hey, Aunt May", Peter grinned.

"Hello to you too, sunshine. Glad to see you're not _Petodious_ anymore. I assume your enthusiasm has nothing to do with the chocolate croissant on this plate, right?"

The teen had the decency to look sheepish. "Nope", he clicked his tongue, "total coincidence."

"Harold's waiting for you downstairs. You'd best be going, ruffian."

Peter smirked. " _Harold,_ huh?"

May smacked him lightly on the head. "Oh, shut up. We're friends, nothing more."

Her nephew tutted, clearly not believing a word she said. The woman pointedly ignored him and opened her arms. Peter hugged her without hesitation.

"I larb you, May", he murmured against her collarbone.

"I larb you too, Pete. Have fun in Italy, will you? And for the love of all that's holy, don't order a latte expecting a latte. _Latte_ will get you milk. Plain milk. Cappuccino is a latte. Remember that."

Italy. Now he could remember. He still didn’t love being woken up at seven in the morning on a holiday, but he supposed there were worse things to lose sleep for. He thought about his Aunt’s words. May’s was a strange warning, but also a fair one, Peter had to admit. He glanced at her one more time and then he went out, ready to take on the world.

(Which meant get into the Audi, say hi to Happy and fall right asleep. It's not like anybody had to know, anyway.)

* * *

“Wake up, kid”, Happy called.

A rough hand shook Peter’s shoulder, but there was an unexpected gentleness to it, like a lioness carrying her cubs to safety by the scruff of their necks. The teen blinked, bleary-eyed. Happy chuckled.

“Boss is waiting for you on the jet”

“Jet?” Peter asked, still half-asleep.

“ _Yes_ , kid. The jet that’ll take you to Italy.” Despite his apparent annoyance, the man’s eyes glimmered in amusement.

Peter understood as much as before, but he kept his mouth shut because he didn’t want to push Happy’s patience. He stumbled behind him, taking the bag and his camera. He looked around him and noticed the jet in the lot. It was his second time on a private plane and he was still speechless. The teen saw Tony on the stairs, doing a mock salute. He lightly shook his head (as if he would’ve done anything different, in his mentor’s position) and picked up his pace.

“Hey, Mr Stark!” Peter shouted.

“Heya, Underoos”, Tony laughed.

Peter went inside and sank into the first seat he found. Then, a sudden thought crossed his mind. “If you’re here and Happy’s there”, he gestured to the man a few rows behind them, “and there’s no one else on here, then who’s flying the plane?”

The man eyed him carefully as if he wasn’t sure if the teen was serious. “Pete, you’re talking with _me._ You seriously think I didn’t install FRIDAY and autopilot on here?”

“No, no, yeah, obviously. It was a meme, Mr Stark.” Peter said, yawning.

Tony nodded, making a mental note to brush up on his internet culture. “Sleepy?”, he asked after a moment.

Peter mumbled something unintelligible in response.

“Oh, you’re right. Toddlers nap at all times of day”.

The teen opened one eye to glare at him. “May woke me up at seven. On a _holiday_.”

Tony put his arms forward. “Alright, sorry. You sleep as much as you like, kid.” he conceded. Peter straight up purred —purred, like a damn genius cat—, curled up in a ball and started snoring.

The billionaire watched him, a soft smile on his face. Peter had fallen asleep with him many times (heck, he even fell asleep _on_ him once or twice, after a mission or a movie night), and he never ceased to wonder how lucky he was to have him. The kid might’ve thought it was the other way around and the media could keep saying whatever they wanted about “Stark and his long-lost son” (the articles weren’t as frequent now, because no one with a desire to have a career would want to attract Virginia Potts’ wrath), but anyone who knew him —Pepper, Happy, even May— could tell that Tony was the lucky one. The Parkers treated him like a person, not the narcissistic billionaire with a dubious past. And that, to Tony, was the greatest gift they could give him.

Because if anyone could see that Peter looked at him like he hung the moon and the stars, not many of them knew that the kid was the very reason why he did it.

* * *

When Peter woke up, there was the sea under him. Which since they were in an airplane was nothing new. And yet, he couldn’t help but feel ridiculously giddy. His heart beat a little faster. He was in Italy.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Tony asked.

The teen nodded, eyes full of awe and childlike wonder. “It’s amazing, Mr Stark”.

“Now”, he said, rubbing his goatee. “Time to put your Italian skills to the test. What do you know how to say?”

“ _Buono. Cattivo. Buongiorno. Buonasera. Buon pomeriggio. Rosso. Verde. Blu_ ” Peter rattled off words at random until Tony stopped him.

“Not too bad, kid. Thank you?”

“ _Grazie._ ”

“You’re welcome?”

“ _Prego_.”

“Please?”

“ _Per_ _favore_.”

“Happy birthday?”

“Why would I—”, the teen sighed, “ _Buon compleanno_.”

“Alright”, Tony clasped his hands together, “You didn’t completely fail.”

Peter made an indignant squawk and his mentor laughed. “Just kidding, kid. You’re amazing.”

He looked outside the window with a soft smile. “ _Benvenuto in Italia, tesoro mio”_ he murmured. Peter engulfed him in a one-armed hug.

And together they stood, while the houses became bigger and bigger and they could see cows and sheep in the countryside.

* * *

Italy was _hot._ Incredibly, ridiculously hot, Peter thought as he wiped a bead of sweat from his left eyebrow. He, Tony and Happy had left their bags at the hotel (which, Peter swore, was the most luxurious building he had ever seen) and even though they were all exhausted they went to visit the city. It was a bit after five, and Tony’s tight schedule didn’t accept lazy days (not that Peter complained. Naples seemed an amazing city from what Mr Stark had told him.) They were walking down a street called _Spaccanapoli_ , which according to the receptionist was “the beating heart of Napoli, _signori_ ”. It wasn’t hard to see why: there were people shouting from the windows, grocers and artisans trying to sell their products and street artists, painting beautiful pictures with colorful spray cans. The teen was laughing when his spidey-sense went off. He tensed, looking around. Tony frowned.

“Kid? What’s—”

“Not now, Mr Stark!” Peter hissed.

He made eye contact with a red-haired guy who didn’t look much older than him. He was holding Tony’s wallet in his hand. Peter briefly saw panic take control of the other’s features, but it was over in a moment. His face unreadable, the pickpocket let go of the wallet and ran, disappearing into the crowd. The teen knelt on the ground and retrieved it, giving it back to its rightful owner.

“Here you go, Mr Stark”, he said.

Before Tony could answer, Happy interjected: “Tony, maybe it’d be better if we went back to the hotel”. He was in full _Forehead Of Security_ mode. After all, a pickpocket was nothing, but in a crowd like this who would’ve noticed it if someone decided to kill genius billionaire playboy philanthropist Tony Stark?

The man in question dismissed his friend’s worries with a wave of his hand. “I should’ve been more careful. He didn’t target me because I’m Tony Stark. He targeted me because I was a foolish tourist who didn’t pay much attention to his belongings.” It might’ve seemed a cold response to some, but more careful observers would’ve noticed the look the two men exchanged. _I’m fine, Hap_ , Tony’s brown eyes said. _If you say so,_ Happy’s dubious glance answered.

In the meantime, Peter had wandered away, following the pickpocket with his gaze. He felt kinda bad for not allowing him to steal Mr Stark’s wallet. (Tony would’ve called him “a sticky boy with a guilt complex almost as big as his brain” if he had heard him —he had already, truth be told—, but the teen couldn’t help it). So, clutching a twenty-euro bill in his hand he walked briskly down the street, determined to make things right. Once he saw a flurry of red hair he started running, dispersing the crowd with countless _sorrys_ and a few well placed New York-style elbows.

“Hey!”, he panted when he was a few steps away from the guy. “Wait!”

The other kept running.

“ _Aspetta_!” Peter shouted again.

Red Hair finally stopped. “ _Parli italiano?”_ he asked, voice harsh.

“ _Un poco_ ” Peter admitted.

Red Hair mumbled something under his breath. It sounded like _“si dice_ po’”, and Peter thought that the guy was a bit of an asshole.

“ _Cosa vuoi?”_ the other demanded.

“You lost this”, he gestured to the money in his hand. “What’s— _qual è il tuo nome_?”

“Matteo”, Red Hair said, “ _Non la voglio la tua carità, mammuocciolo._ No money”.

Alright. He didn’t want money. Understandable. Maybe Peter could offer him something else.

“I’m hungry. Do you know any places to eat? I need to get something for my friends, too. _Posto per mangiare?_ ” he added, hating that he sounded so bad.

Matteo looked about two seconds away from bursting in laughter. “ _Certo che so dove andare a mangiare, genio. Io ci vivo, qui. Seguimi.”_ Seeing that Peter was still looking at him with his mouth slightly ajar he scoffed. “Follow me.”

They walked for what felt like hours and hours, at least to Peter (a quick look at his watch told him that only twelve minutes had passed, but his stomach and the tapeworm that was living here begged to differ), but then, just as our hero was starting to lose all hope, there was _something_. He saw it, the light at the end of the tunnel. A _bakery_ , apparently?

“Come on”, Matteo said, impatient. “How many are your friends?”

“Two”, Peter answered.

Matteo dragged him to the counter and spoke in rapid-fire Italian with the cashier. Peter only understood a few words: _quattro, grazie, prego, sì_.” Then he turned to Peter, his palm open.

“Money”, he explained.

Peter gave him the bill, biting back a remark about his lack of manners.

A few minutes later Red Hair ( _no_ , Matteo) handed him a paper bag and a bottle of water. He pointed to the bag, holding a piece of some sort of cake in his hand. “It’s _casatiello_. _É buono._ Good.” He walked out of the shop, not waiting to see if Peter was following. In the street, he pulled out his phone and texted someone. At that, Peter couldn’t hide his astonishment. The other noticed it, because he looked up and glared at him.

“What? You thought just because I pickpocket I must be poor and in need of help from an _americano_?”, his eyes threw daggers at Peter, who was starting to shrink in fear. If Aunt May was any indicator of how scary Italians could be when they were angry, he was in trouble. _Big_ trouble.

“No, I— I wanted to help. _Aiutare._ ”

“ _Senti,_ Mr I-wanna-help, that was not the way to do it. Tell your friend that I’m sorry I tried to pickpocket him.” With that, Matteo turned on his heels and went into the opposite direction. “ _Spero che l’Italia ti piaccia!”_ He sneered when he was starting to disappear from view.

Perfect. So now Peter was alone. With no clue where he was. And naturally, it would be too much to ask for phone reception, wouldn’t it? But hey, at least he had food!

Nibbling on his _casatiello_ —Matteo was right, that thing was really good—, he wandered in the streets, trying to remember where he had gone before. He soon understood that his battle against Naples’s streets would be a lost one. There were too many of them, each one small and intersecting with another. Finally, he saw a bystander and stopped her. “ _Scusi,_ ” he said, “ _può dire come arrivare all’hotel Partenopeo?_ ”

With the woman’s help, several misunderstandings and half an hour later, Peter was able to get to his hotel. He turned on his phone and he saw six missed calls from Tony and even one from Happy. His legs turned into something akin to jelly. Wobbling, he got into the elevator, already fabricating excuses in his mind. _I got lost._ True, but too embarrassing to say. _I lost track of time._ Also true, but he had a feeling that it wouldn’t be enough. _I made a friend._ What was he, five? _I have food!_ Did he have a death wish? No, he would deal with the situation as the young man he was, calmly explaining what had happened. He would apologize and move on. He would…

He opened the door of the suite and all of his excuses went to hell.

Happy and Tony were sitting on two black armchairs, stony expressions on their faces.

“Look who’s decided to join us, Hap”, Tony said.

“I’m sor—”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it, Peter. You’ve been away for _two hours_! Do you know how worried we’ve been?”

“I—”

“Zip it, kid.” Happy advised.

“You could’ve been taken, or… or abducted, or even killed”

“I’m Spider-Man, Tony”, Peter said, hoping that using his name would have some kind of effect on his mentor, “I can handle myself”.

It didn’t. “Yeah, but I can’t. You could’ve answered our calls, or at least texted if you didn’t feel like talking.”

“We were two seconds away from alerting the police”, Happy interjected.

“Oh, so I, a sixteen-year-old, go away for two hours and you call the police? How smart of you. It sounds _exactly_ like something a superhero would do.”

“Not a superhero, kid. A worried parent.” Tony answered, only realizing what he had said after the words had left his mouth.

“You’re not my dad, Tony!” Peter exploded, “I don’t know what delusional dream you’ve fabricated, but my parents are _dead_. Uncle Ben too. You’re just a billionaire with a guilt complex who needed a literal teenager to help him in his stupid, petty fight against his teammates!”

He strode out of the room, wiping angry tears they all pretended not to see. Happy excused himself soon after. He was probably going for a walk to clear his head, Tony thought.

The genius was left alone. He stared at the wall in front of him until he began to see dark spots. “You’re right, squirt. I’m not your dad. But if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that you’re my kid”, he murmured to an empty room.

* * *

All hail Happy Hogan. Tony's bodyguard, Tony's head of security, Tony's friend, and now also Tony's supreme-repairer-of-relationships-with-a-certain-Spider-Boy. Happy had somehow convinced Peter to at least talk to Tony (he refused to tell him exactly what he had said, blabbering something about 'professional secrecy' and whatnot), and he had _also_ managed to get the genius out of his own sulky mood, which was a feat not many could say to have accomplished.

And that's how the trio found themselves at the table in the living room, about to have the most awkward dinner of the century. They ate in silence, their conversation minimal and painfully polite. "This _casatiello_ is good" "Yeah, it is." "Can you pass the water, please?" "Here you go."

Happy, saint Happy, was the one who broke the silence. He stood abruptly, breathed through his nose and said, "Look, I can't take this anymore. I'm gonna go...to the bathroom or something, and you two figure it out." True to his word, he left.

Tony looked at Peter, but the teen was carefully avoiding his eye. He sighed and said, "kid, I overreacted."

Peter stuffed his mouth with another piece of _casatiello_. He swallowed. "Yeah, you did."

"I'm sorry."

" _Sorry doesn't cut it_ ,” the teen mocked. A pause. Then he shook his head. "No, you're right. I'm sorry too." He took a sip of water before speaking again. "You know, I didn't really mean the thing I said about Germany."

"Thanks," Tony answered.

"But," Peter added with a smirk, "I was serious about the guilt complex bit".

The man threw a surprisingly well-aimed chunk of prosciutto at his head. "You little…"

Happy chose that moment to return from the bathroom. His knowing smile confirmed Tony's suspicion that he had heard the entire conversation.

"So, gentlemen," he said, taking a seat. "Are we good?"

Peter and Tony glanced at each other. "We're good."

* * *

On their fourth night in Napoli, they finally ate pizza. Tony had been adamant about ‘saving the best for last’. Not that Peter complained: there were so many delicacies in the city that it was hard to choose a favourite, and as long as he was concerned having _gelato_ or _sfogliatelle_ for dinner was perfectly fine. But now, it was time for the verdict. As Tony stopped the waitress, Peter felt his palms sweat a bit. It was stupid, and he knew it, but what if the didn’t like the pizza? What would have he answered when Tony would’ve asked if he had liked it? What if Tony hated him?

His mentor’s voice tore him away from his growing panic. “Pete, you ok?”

“Yeah, I was just...just thinking,” he answered shakily. He drank a bit of water to clear his head: surely Tony wouldn’t hate him over a pizza, would he? No, Peter was overreacting. As usual.

“ _Una margherita, per favore_ ,” Tony was saying.

“ _Per lei, signore?_ ” the waitress asked.

It took Peter a moment to realize she was talking to him. He blinked, stumbling over his words. “Uh, I— what he’s taking. A _margherita_. Thanks.”

Happy ordered his pizza, but Peter didn’t hear him. His ears were ringing, and he was certain his face was beet red. _Why_ couldn’t he enjoy an evening in peace without messing it up?

“I’ll— I’ll be right back”, he stammered.

He practically ran to the bathroom, his heart beating as if he had just run a marathon in two hours.

He took a deep breath and splashed his face with water. He had the eyes of a deer in headlights, and something inside Peter was begging him to escape, to go away, to stay _safe_.

For one, terrible moment, he feared that it was his spidey-sense trying to alert him of danger, but a quick look at his surroundings confirmed that it was just good-ole anxiety paying a visit.

Peter sighed, listening to his heartbeat and waiting for it to go back to normal. When he was sure he wouldn’t explode like a ticking bomb, the teen walked out of the stall.

He felt everyone’s stares on him as he returned to his table. He saw that their plates had arrived. Happy and Tony were waiting for him.

“I’m okay,” he said before either of the men could open their mouths.

The others nodded, concern slowly leaving their eyes. They started eating, none of them addressing what had happened.

“So, kid,” Tony started. “Thoughts on the pizza?”

“Well, I mean, I suppose it’s good,” Peter grinned.

“Suppose? You heathen, it’s the best pizza in the city!”

Happy, who was following the dialogue like a tennis match, smothered a laugh at that.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, old man,” Peter retorted.

Tony smiled. His kid was there with him, in his city, laughing and finally being a kid. _That_ was what helped him sleep at night.

* * *

“You know, Mr Stark,” Peter said over the phone a few days later, “I have a confession to make”

Tony frowned. “Go on, kid”

“I never really liked the Hawaiian.” He hung up, and the genius was left alone, astonished.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he had no reason to be surprised.

After all, he and Peter both knew that it had never been a matter of pizza, Hawaiian or not.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for sticking 'till the end! I hope you liked Italian Tony as much as I enjoyed writing him! If you did, feel free to kudos and comment, they always make my day :-)  
> A few notes:  
> -the title is from [a poem](http://www.napolinvespa.it/en/blog/9/la-pi-bella-poesia-mai-scritta-per-la-pizza-regina-di-napoli_31.html) by Gennaro Esposito, and it basically means "the real pizza"  
> -"Benvenuto in Italia, tesoro mio" means "welcome to Italy, my treasure". Tesoro is a term of endearment, kinda like "kid".  
> -"Non la voglio, la tua carità" means "I don't want your charity", and "mammuocciolo" is Neapolitan slang for idiot  
> -"Certo che so dove andare, genio. Io ci vivo, qui" means "of course I know where to go, genius. I live here."  
> -casatiello is a Neapolitan dish, sorta like a savory donut with ham, eggs and Pecorino cheese.  
> -"Spero che l'Italia ti piaccia" means "I hope you like Italy"  
> -the Hotel Partenopeo really exists  
> -if you want, you can come hang out on my [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/alicecasch)!


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